


she

by reallynotokay



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Original Character(s), Other, just a little drabble about my best friend, sorry - Freeform, still in a bad mood so, this happened, this is not really a fic but okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:45:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6145013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reallynotokay/pseuds/reallynotokay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>alternative title: four am is not a good time to think about how you haven't spoken to your best friend in weeks</p>
            </blockquote>





	she

“I’m- I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I can’t- I can’t talk about it so soon.”  
"It’s alright, it’s fine. It takes time, I know.”  
“No, no, I can’t do this at all. You’re going to have to find somebody else. I’m sorry.”  
“How about- how about we don’t talk about it. Could you tell me other things about her? Defining qualities; how she took her coffee, what her room looked like, her handwriting, her voice, anything?”  
“Yeah- uh. Okay. Um. She didn’t like hot drinks, really. Not coffee or tea or anything- she preferred cold drinks even on cold days. The only kind she really liked was um, hot chocolate. Once, for Christmas, I gave her a little care package, uh, it had this little kroger brand hot chocolate in it. Salted caramel, I think. It turned into a bit of a tradition. For every birthday or christmas or whatever we’d give each other strange flavors of hot chocolate. She was winning, when it happened. She’d found- oh god- habanero pepper hot cocoa. She knows I can’t handle spicy, too, but she got it for me anyways. She was definitely winning.  
Uh, yeah. She didn’t really like hot drinks.  
I always thought it was odd, actually, that she didn’t, cause she seemed like a black coffee type of person. You know? She just- when you were around her it felt like black coffee smells, strong and happy and. Nice.  
Sorry. Off topic.  
Uh, her room. Oh my god, was her room a mess. I remember, once, I went to her place after brunch and there were painted gummy bears scattered on the floor. I never really understood how she lived like that, but she did. And it fit her, it really did. Her bathroom sink was always colorful from paint, and she’d have paint tubes and brushes and half finished drawings laying everywhere. Her art was so beautiful. She was one of the most talented people I’ve ever known, I think.  
But seriously- even though her room was a mess, it was a mess that suited her, I guess? When both her parents moved, in eighth grade, she got rooms in each home. At her mom's she shared with her sister. It wasn’t too bad, she still had shelves and all. But at her dad's house her room was hers, and boy did she like that. It was really sunny, big windows and a window seat in one of them. She had a loft bed, so she had quite a nice big room, and it was painted grey, I believe. It was a nice room. It looked like- it looked like one of those rooms you see in the ads, with grey walls and white trim, big grand windows and plants. I always associated her with plants, and I’m not really sure why. It’s not like she had a lot of them- maybe a few, but not enough to make an impression. She just always struck me as a plant person, and person that should have as many succulents and ferns and flowers in her room as possible. I dunno.  
Handwriting? Fucking chicken scratch. Only person I really ever knew with worse handwriting than mine. Honestly, she had to learn how to type fast because even she couldn’t read the notes she took. I liked it though. I found one of her old science journals; we used to write notes in the margins for each other and some days reading them keeps me-no. Sorry. Too much. Next question?”  
“What did her eyes look like?”  
“Her eyes? They were- they were gorgeous. They were the prettiest goddamn eyes. She never liked them though, said they were brown and boring and that blue eyes were so much better. It made me sad, sometimes, because they really were breathtaking. They were hazel-ish, I guess, but they were also golden and greenish and sometimes a bit blue in the right light. I was enchanted by them. It was hard not to stare sometimes.  
If I uh, keep talking I’m going to go on about her eyes for at least half an hour. Can I talk about- can I talk about her art a bit?”  
“Yeah, yeah, of course, go on.”  
“So, she was a really phenomenal artist. Most talented one I’ve ever met. She got really good in middle school, around seventh grade and she decided she wanted to go to Booker T, the art school her sister went to. I was, sad, I suppose, because we weren’t going to have the high school experience you heard about in movies or whatever with your best friends. (the best four years of your life thing is bullshit, by the way.) So in eighth grade her family, uhh her mum and dad um, they moved down to dallas. And she went to a um, school down there. And I was trying to be uh, happy for her, i guess, but I wasn’t very good at it. I had to deal with it though, and fall came around and I was trying to not be pathetic but. I didn’t have very many friends and it was just really hard for me, to uh adjust to not having her around. She was kind of my rock, you know, my um. My anchor. And in seventh grade I had even fewer friends than in eighth so she was always with me. Now that I actually think about it, I was. I was probably way too dependant on her. Yikes. Too deep, sorry. Back to her, uh, her art. God, she was such an artist. She just, she just kind of gave off that artist vibe, you know? It wasn’t as if she always wore a paint stained smock, she just. You could tell she was an artist when you met her.  
Like I said before, her room was always a fucking mess but I think it helped her. With her art, I mean. There were paint tubes everywhere, always in various states of emptiness, paintbrushes, half sketches on scraps of paper. It was nice, her room. It felt like her, you know? Her hands were usually dirty, from paint stains or graphite or chalk pastel or whatever she was doing that day. Her nails, too, they always had paint under them. I pretended to be grossed out but. I always wanted to hold them, wanted to know what artists hands (particularly her artist hands) felt like swinging between us.  
I’m a fucking hopeless romantic. It’s horrible.  
We went to a few art&music festivals, when she first moved. Her mum lived in the arts district, so she was right by everything she loved and we’d walk down when the sun was starting to set. Those were my favorite times with her, (some of them at least) when we’d go out into the city at night and eat food truck food and visit museums and just be. I remember, once, at one of the fairs or whatever the crowds were really thick. Like, fucking, solid masses. So we held hands, when we needed to get through one, and we said it was to stay together in the crowd but then. She didn’t let go so neither did I and we walked, holding hands until we needed to get food or something. It was really nice. I wish I’d had the courage to pick up her hand again.  
Those festivals were just- they were such good times. We didn’t have to think of things to do, because there was so much around us and there was so much to talk about. I really loved them. Especially when we’d go to the art museum over there, and we’d walk around and look at art and. I looked at her the same way she looked at art, I guess. She was art, though. Everything about her was art. She smiled, not super big but when she was happy it looked as if the sun was shining out of her, and that was art. After she cut her hair, she’d always push it up when it got in her eyes (which was so goddamn cute) and that was art. The way she laughed, when I said something funny, the way she laughed, god, that was art. She was art when she wore those boots, the big black one that were really cute but I hated because they made her taller than me. She was art when she wore flowery dresses and art when she was in skinny jeans and combat boots. She was art when she was doing something she loved and really, she was art when she did anything, anything at all.  
Oh, oh god. This is-  
I can’t talk about her anymore.”  
“What about- can you just tell me facts? Which hand she wrote with, how tall she was, etcetera?”  
“Left.”  
“Pardon?”  
“She was left handed. We both were. She was only an inch shorter than me, probably 5’3 or 5’4. She always left her boots untied. She procrastinated like nobody else. She didn’t like to read very much but I loved to. She liked Cookie Butter Ice Cream from Trader Joe’s. She stayed up late because she wanted to but you can bet your damn ass that she’d complain about how tired she was the next day. She had a crystal necklace, real or fake I don’t know, that she wore a lot. It was purple. She dyed her hair blue once, and got dress coded. She dyed her hair red once, but it just blended in. She looked good with long hair and short hair. She liked art. She was art. She was bad at math. She played euphonium for a bit. I once gave her a tiny whistle and she put it on a chain and wore it. She had a friend with the same name. She wasn’t straight. She wore fishnets and damn, did she look good. She could pull off a nice dress and she could pull off torn up jeans. Her tights tore a lot because of her boots. She was exceptionally good at eyeliner. She was my friend.  
She was my best friend. She was-.

 

“That’s all I have time for. I’m sorry I didn’t give you much.”  
“No, no, you gave me more than enough. Thank you, so so much.”

(dear interviewer,  
i’m sorry. i know i didn’t do too well. it just seems too soon.  
talking did help, though. it can’t bring her back, but. it was okay, i guess.  
please send me a copy once you’ve edited or whatever.  
thanks,  
mm.)

**Author's Note:**

> um. most of this is true, i guess. all the facts and stuff are actually based off my best friend. she moved and im sad about it and we haven't talked in weeks so i basically vomited my anxiety on to my laptop and made a shitty story out of it. sorry. im really not good at this, am i. also, theres a lot of uhs and ums because i recorded myself talking and then just typed up what i heard. sorry about that.


End file.
